


West Coast Turnaround

by blookythecat22



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Alternate Universe - Truckers, Drug Abuse, Drug Dealing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Photographer Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Recreational Drug Use, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-26 19:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12065256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blookythecat22/pseuds/blookythecat22
Summary: Romance is hard when one of you won't escape and one of you won't stop running.(Unstable, drug-using, truck-stop-hooker Steve meets grumpy, lonely, trucker Bucky. Angst and shenanigans ensue.)





	1. Crazy Bastards

**Author's Note:**

> So there's this great photo shoot Chris Evans did for Flaunt Magazine (http://imageamplified.com/flaunt-magazine-chris-evans-tony-duran/) and my fellow internet perverts have pointed out that he looks like a truck stop hooker so yeah that was my inspiration.  
> I couldn't find a fic in this universe that hit me right (read: couldn't find one with enough stucky) so I decided to give it a go.  
> This set up lends itself to ~pr0n~ but since I'm terrible at writing that, I took it in an angsty direction instead.

300 miles. 300 miles of shitty road and raging winds. And now that it was finally clearing up, he was out of gas. _Perfect._

Bucky slowed to a stop in the road--if you could call this patch of frozen mud a road--and began the slow process of maneuvering his big rig into a spot.

The truck stop was one of the most depressing places he'd seen in a while, and that was saying something. Half the lights in the sign were out, and there was more mud and slush than pavement in the lot. He stopped the truck and hopped out over a dirty snow bank and into the muck. _Gross._ At least he was wearing boots. He glanced around.

There wasn't much. Some gas pumps, a convenience store, a rest stop. Wind blown fields covered in snow, occasional trailers and shacks. He made his way to the store. He needed a goddamn cup of coffee. And maybe a Twinkie.

He’d tramped all the way up to the door before he realized he wasn't alone.

There was a guy leaned up against the cinderblock wall of the rest stop bathrooms. He had nothing but a ratty pair of jeans on, one of his thumbs stuck in the waistband. The other hand held a lit cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the chill wind.

Bucky just nodded at the guy and reached for the door handle. He wasn't much for chatting, and this guy looked like trouble, anyway.

"Hey there, big guy."

Bucky stopped, hand on the door, and took another look at the man. His eyes fell on close-cropped blond hair and a scattering of tattoos. "Hey," he heard himself say.

"Watcha lookin for?" The man’s voice was low, almost sultry, pitched to carry under the storm.

Bucky licked his chapped lips, ran a hand through wind-blown brown hair. He looked back at the store's lit windows. "I just wanted a snack."

"Well, I've been told I look like one." The blond stepped out of the shadows and _okay, damn_. He could have been a Greek god. Bucky's breath caught a little. What the hell was someone who looked like that doing in a place like this?

The blond gave a funny little smile, a mix of bashful and smirking, at Bucky's visual inspection. "Don't skid going around my curves, trucker."

"Um, right," Bucky said-- _good job, Barnes, real eloquent--_ and stepped inside. The blond didn't follow.

 

He ended up just buying a cup of coffee. The clerk behind the counter was a rude, shrimpy, little guy—“Bert,” according to the name tag resting on his left man-boob—who wouldn't stop staring at Bucky's shoulder. Like if he stared hard enough, an arm would materialize. _Sorry to disappoint._ Bucky wrapped his jacket tighter around himself, as best as he could without spilling his coffee, and headed outside to the pumps.

 

It wasn't until he was finished that he noticed the blond was staring at him.

He'd just hung up the gas pump and was wrapping his fingers around the coffee, trying to warm up. Bucky took an experimental sip of coffee, burned his tongue, and swore. _Today’s just not my day, is it?_

The blond was still smirking at him from across the parking lot. He tossed his cigarette onto the ground, crushed it under his bare foot, and then began to trek across the icy muck towards Bucky.

"Hey," Bucky tried. "It's pretty cold out, isn't it?"

The blond stopped in front of him. Up close, Bucky could see goose bumps rising on the blond's bare arms. Wasn't he freezing? Then he looked into the man's eyes and lost his train of thought. They were the most beautiful, cerulean eyes he'd ever seen, as pure and wide as a summer sky. There was something about this guy, in the pout of his lips and the look in his eye and _oh my god Bucky he's a hooker, how did you not realize--_

"Warmer now that you're here, big guy. What's your name?"

 _You were distracted by how hot he was, that’s how._ Bucky coughed. "James Buchanan Barnes." He managed to smile. "Kind of a mouthful, I know."

"Don't worry, I can handle a mouthful." Those big, blue eyes were practically glowing in the fluorescent lights, wide and innocent like he didn't have a clue how dirty his mouth was.

Bucky swallowed, hard. "I go by Bucky, mostly."

The blond wiped a hand on his tattered jeans and held it out. "Steve."

Bucky set his coffee cup on the ground and shook Steve's hand. It was warm, like the hood of his truck after a long haul. He felt a shiver go down his spine. Then he realized he was still holding the guy's hand and pulled back.

 _Nice to meet you_ , his brain prompted, too late.

Goddammit. He lurched from foot to foot in the crunching ice.

Steve hadn't stepped back after the handshake; he'd gotten closer, somehow. His frosty breath was hanging in the air, his blue eyes crackling like lightning in a summer storm.

Bucky opened his mouth and prayed something suave would come out.

"Where's your shoes?" Nope. Not today, apparently.

Steve did that cute little smile again, half smirk, half apology, all charm. "I don't wear them while I work. Too much to take off and on."

"Not even a shirt?" Bucky was concerned, he really was, but he couldn't deny his eyes had caught on the gentle curves of Steve's chest, the way his muscles caught the colored lights of the neon just right. The nipples puffy in the cold, the slight dusting of hair leading his gaze downward...

"Free advertisement," Steve said frankly. He sunk his teeth into his lower lip. "So...whaddya say? Are we doing this?"

"I..." Bucky sucked in the cold air desperately. _You don't have time for this, you dumb fuck. What part of ‘Calgary in six hours’ didn't make it into your head? "_ I gotta get going..."

Steve's mouth twisted into something that was far from a smile. "I won't take long." His voice was an engine purring to life, like thunder rumbling far out over the plains. And then his hands were on Bucky's chest, under his coat, those warm, insistent hands, and the next thing Bucky knew his chapped lips were burning with a truck stop hooker's kiss.

Steve's warm body was flush against his, Steve's hands were everywhere at once, and the whole world was condensed to his hungry mouth and diving tongue and remorseless teeth.

Steve was black ice and Bucky was spinning out, the world rushing by in a whirlwind of sound and color.

And then Steve leaned back, and the muddy parking lot snapped back into focus. He wiped his mouth with his fingers; Bucky noticed his knuckles were bruised.

He caught the hand in his and brought it to his mouth, kissed the knuckles where the skin was broken. "You oughta take better care of yourself." He felt his mouth press itself into a thin line of concern.

Steve cocked his head. His face was set in that smirk, but Bucky was beginning to see it as a mask. Beneath it, Steve was taken aback. He must have been, because he paused uncharacteristically, posture tense rather than languid.

When he finally spoke, his voice was easy enough. "How bout I take good care of you, instead? I'll give you a discount. Twenty bucks."

"A handjob? Or...?" The question slipped out before Bucky could stop it, his mind shuffling through increasingly distracting scenarios.

"Dealer's choice." Steve served him a wide, frank smile. "What'll it be? I'm freezing my nips off out here."

There was a long, pregnant pause. Bucky shook his head. "I don't think--"

"Look, I don't have shoes, okay?"

Bucky froze, staring at Steve.

"My last pair wore out a week ago, but I'm ten bucks short of a new pair. So ten bucks, for anything, final offer. If you don't like it...fuck off." Steve wasn't making brazen eye contact anymore; his eyes were unfocused, leveled at Bucky's waist.

Bucky felt his stomach clench. _Ten bucks...for anything...for shoes..._ He'd never been well off, but...he'd never been _that_ low in his life. He reached in his pocket for his wallet, pinned it against his chest while he fumbled for a bill.

He pulled out a twenty, put the wallet back, and held the money out.

"Here," he prompted, when Steve just stared.

"I only asked for ten," Steve said finally.

"Just take it. Buy a sandwich. Or a shirt."

Steve looked back up, eyes frosty. "I don't take charity."

"So you're open to blowing guys in a parking lot, but you're above free money?"

Steve swung his fist.

Or he must have. It happened so fast, all Bucky registered was pain, blooming hot and bone-deep in his jaw as he spun sideways.

He reeled for a moment, panting in lung-fulls of sharp, cold air. His coffee had knocked over. It was melting into the snow at Steve's bare feet.

"You think you're better than me?"

He looked back up. Steve was shaking, his hands crumpled into fists at his side, his hulking shoulders squared. "This whole damn world's full of people who think they're better than other people. That just cause they can push someone else down, that makes them special." He took a step towards Bucky, shoved him. Bucky stumbled back, arm up to block his face.

"Well you're not." Steve's glare could have frozen oil in July. "You're just a bully. You're just like the guys who think they can have me for free."

"That's not what I meant." Bucky's voice sounded small in the empty lot, lost to the wind and the buzz of the lights. Steve dropped his hands. He looked miserable, and Bucky felt something lurch inside him. "It was a shitty thing to say. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. But it was the truth, wasn't it?" Steve wrapped his arms around himself, looked down at Bucky's coffee seeping into the snow. "I'm the one who's sorry. That was out of line. I'll...I'll make it better..." He stepped forward and dropped to his knees in the slush in front of Bucky, reaching for his belt buckle with pale, shivering fingers.

Bucky jolted back. "Hey, hey, don't--just take the money. You need it."

Steve sat back on his heels. "I told you, I don't take charity. And now I owe you for the coffee, too, and I hit you--I gotta pay you back."

Bucky held out the twenty that was still crumpled in his fist. "For the kiss, then."

Steve stared at the money, his eyes glazed over like a frozen pond. "It wasn't a twenty dollar kiss."

"It was for me."

Steve looked up, a sad smile on his lips and shame written all over his face, and Bucky felt his heart twist savagely in his chest. How the hell could he fix this? He pawed desperately for the right words.

"Look, I...I know what pity feels like. After I lost my arm, I had a hard time even getting dressed. The way people would look at me...the way they still do...it made me disgusted with myself. But sometimes...sometimes somebody just wants to help you. And you've gotta let them. Cause you'd do the same for them. It's what people do."

Steve smiled, his saddest smile yet. “They do, do they?”

“Yes.” Bucky held out his arm. "So let me give you a hand."

After a long moment, Steve took it, hauled himself to his feet. His knees were muddy where they stuck through the holes in his jeans. His toes were bloodless white. He smiled, slowly. "I'd love to, but it doesn't look like you've got one to spare."

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh as he tucked the twenty into Steve's pocket. "I'll get by." He reached up to clap Steve on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself."

Steve looked up at him, his smile full of teeth but his eyes careful. "Thanks, Buck.”

 

Steve stood there in the freezing mud for a long time, staring down at the crumpled twenty-dollar bill. He could buy some soup tomorrow. Maybe even film…

 _Shoes, first, you idiot_ , he thought, looking down at his bare feet. Any longer out here and they’d start turning funny colors.

He still couldn’t believe that big guy—Bucky—hadn’t hit him back. Even with one arm, Steve was willing to bet he was a hell of a fighter.

That’s what he was focusing on. He’d punched a trucker, and hadn’t gotten punched back. That was a first. The other stuff—the apology, the fact that he’d actually taken money he hadn’t worked for, the supposedly _twenty dollar kiss_ —that was too much to wrap his head around at once. Best to stick to one unbelievable thing at a time. The crazy bastard had actually _kissed his hand,_ for god’s sake. Could he not tell Steve was a hooker? And a cheap one at that?

Oh, well. Not like he was ever going to see the guy again. At least now he could get shoes tomorrow.

He walked back to the mini-mart, grabbed some newspapers to wrap around his feet. He was standing on one leg, leaning against the window, when somebody shoved him from behind. He swayed, slipped, fell flat on his face. Shit.

“No handprints on my windows, slut.” _Fucking Bert._

Steve pulled his face out of the freezing puddle. The lights of the neon signs were reflected in it, fragmented, spinning. Everything was spinning. He probably should have eaten something today.

He grabbed the wall and hauled himself up. “Sorry, Bert.”

“I thought we agreed you’d keep your back-alley dealings _in the back alley_ , not in the middle of the parking lot, under the bright lights. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Rogers family never did have any shame.”

He knew what face Bert was making—the condescending way his mouth twisted. He didn’t want to see it. He stuck his hands in his pockets, balled them into fists, tight. “Sorry, Bert.”

“Whoring yourself out to truckers is one thing. But don’t start fights with my customers.” Bert shoved the handle of his broom under Steve’s chin, hard, lifting his face. “Clear?”

Steve swallowed convulsively but kept his gaze fixed on the slushy pavement. “Yeah.”

"Excuse me?" Bert shoved the broom handle harder against his throat, so that Steve almost choked.

Steve shut his eyes. "Yes, we're clear." 

"Good." Bert waited for a moment before shoving him away. "Now run on home to your auntie.”

Steve turned and limped towards the first of the fields between him and home. It was covered in ankle-deep snow. He shivered.

Bert’s voice echoed after him, low and sneering. “And take a shower before you hug her. You smell like sex.”

 

The cabin of his truck was warm, but it wasn't nearly as warm as Steve. Bucky twisted his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to heat them up. His jaw still throbbed.

He wouldn't need coffee to stay awake tonight. Not with that crazy truck stop hooker rattling around in his head. From flirting to fighting to trying to blow him, all in less than five minutes. Crazy bastard.

He couldn't help the fond smile that spread across his face. Stupid, beautiful, crazy bastard.

He leaned back in his seat and let his eyes follow the lonely curves of the road, his thoughts cluttered with bright blue eyes and warm hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criticism please! It's my first attempt at fan fiction so tell me if anything is OOC to you or just doesn't work.  
> The title: "west coast turnaround" is slang for drugs truckers use to keep themselves awake. (It's also a really oblique reference to "the end of the line" I guess)
> 
> (So I have a lot of confusing plans for this, might end up re-writing it, but here we are. I wrote this whole thing in a night and didn't sleep and then realized I had work at 7 am and then hit my roommate's car. yay. So idk if it's any good.) 
> 
> Some extra notes about characterization if you’ve got time~~  
> So I've noticed a pattern with stucky that it's a lot more common to see Bucky as the druggie/hooker/stripper character but not Steve and that just doesn't ring true for me. I mean, let's review.  
> Steve is  
> a) very detached from his body, both pre-serum and after  
> b) unconcerned about what others do to his body (with scientific experiments and just straight up getting the shit beat out of him)  
> c) self-sacrificing  
> d) reckless in a way that borders on self-destructive  
> e) has definite self esteem issues let's be real  
> So yeah I don't think it's that far out of character, even in-universe. I could easily imagine Steve Rogers selling his body on the side if he got poor/desperate enough. Particularly if he had lost hope and didn't have Bucky there.  
> Also the Bucky in this universe is based on Civil War Bucky—Sad and a little awkward and wants to be left alone. Worked well for the trucker persona.  
> Thx!!


	2. Something To Look Forward To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some insight into our character's lives in this universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update? I KNOW. But I, like Bucky, can't get TruckStopHooker!Steve out of my head so I've been writing this on my phone all day. (Wait, isn't that how Fifty Shades started? If I change the names, can I get rich off of this?!)
> 
> In all seriousness, THANK YOU for all the nice comments and kudos. I'm dying of happiness. Literally getting me through my week right now.

Steve had been cold before. He knew the ins and outs of the feeling--the sore kind of cold that spread along his chapped skin, the twisting kind of cold that crept down his spine. The branching cold, like needles in his ribs that made him feel hollowed out and worthless.

But when Steve finally got home and saw the trailer door swinging open on its hinges, he felt a different kind of cold settle in his stomach. Different, but familiar.

He touched the door with numb fingers. The shrill creaking as it swayed in the wind set his teeth on edge.

“Aunt Peg?” he said, his throat tied in knots.

No answer. The trailer was dark inside, and Steve fumbled for a few moments, hands shaking from more than cold now, before he managed to find the light switch.

He flipped it on, illuminating the sagging paisley couch, the milk crate end table, the faded checkered curtains.

He turned and shoved aside the battered, bamboo screen, but his side of the trailer was empty as well. Just his lumpy futon, with its mussed sheets.

“Peg…” he said, his voice breaking, like a record scratch in the empty trailer.

It was so much worse, this feeling, this cold that sank to the bottom of his stomach like a stone and stayed there, an immovable weight, an anchor. Dread, he supposed it was. If you can feel dread for something that already happened.

He kicked the trailer door back open.

“Peg!” His voice was swallowed up by the wind. The storm was picking up again. _Shit._ This was his fault _. Shouldn’t have left her alone, should never leave her alone…_

She’d been okay for so long, he’d let his fear thaw. He’d trusted everything would keep being fine. _How have I not learned my lesson yet?_

He made a few circles around the trailer on foot, but he knew it was hopeless. If he was going to get to her before the storm did, he was gonna need a car.

So Steve pulled on his sweatshirt and grabbed a blanket.

And then he turned around and headed back to find Bert.

 

 _Fuck._ He was lost. Bucky pulled the truck over towards the side of road and unfurled his map on the dashboard—not an easy task with one hand. He clicked on his penlight—the light inside the cab had gone out a month ago, he kept forgetting to call Clint about that—and tried to make heads or tails of the squiggly lines and numbers that were swimming before his eyes. _Stupid Canadian map. Maple syrup chugging, tree stabbing weirdos…_

He blamed Steve for this entirely. If he weren’t so damn distracting, Bucky wouldn’t have taken the wrong turn at Lethbridge. Hell, he’d probably be asleep by now. But when all he could think about was that kiss, and Steve…Steve and his no shirt and soft lips and cheesy jokes and— _Oh, there’s the problem._ Apparently he’d taken the 3 towards Coaldale instead of Coalhurst—and hadn’t noticed until he was in fucking Saskatchewan.

 _Who names two cities after coal within the same 20 miles?_ Bucky banged his head against the back of the seat a few times, stuck his penlight in his mouth, and started searching the cup-holders for his Nicorette.

 

Steve took a deep breath of cold night air and knocked on the door. He’d run over here, and while that meant he was warmer, he was also completely out of breath. He stood there panting while he waited for Bert to answer. _Please still be awake…_

After a minute, Steve pounded on the door again.

“Christ, I’m coming…” A few seconds later, the door opened and Bert stood in his bathrobe—All five feet and 250 pounds of him. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want, Rogers?”

“It’s Peggy—she left again. Can I borrow your truck? Please?”

Bert glared at him. “Maybe if you weren’t here, acting like a piece of shit, you could have kept an eye on her—“

“I know it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left her alone that long, I just needed—Please, can I borrow the truck? The storm’s picking up, and she could hurt herself…Please?”

Bert stared at him for a few seconds, disgust plain on his face, before he responded. “Why do you always come to _me_ for help, Rogers? Remind me.”

Steve swallowed, focused his eyes on the chipped paint of the doorjamb. “Because you’re the only person who will help me.”

“That’s right. The only person. In this whole fucking town.” He reached up and pulled his keys off the hook. “Remember that.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much, Bert. I’ll—I’ll remember.” He looked down at the keys in Bert’s hand. “Can I have the keys? Please?”

Bert flashed him another look of hatred before finally pressing the keys into his hand. “Have it back in an hour,” he called, as Steve ran towards the beat-up Chevy. “If you don’t find her by then, she’ll be dead anyway.”

Steve grit his teeth. As much as he hated him, the asshole was probably right.

 

Bucky stared at the bridge. The bridge stared back at Bucky. His headlights glinted off the warning signs on either side. He turned the radio down, rubbed at his temple where a headache had been building steadily, and pulled out his Nicorette. _One piece every one to two hours, huh? What a nice, hopeful sentiment. They should put that on a Christmas card…_ He popped out the last two and tossed them in his mouth. _Narrow, icy bridge here we come._ At least if he died, his last thought would be a cute blond in ripped blue jeans. He smiled a little, and started rolling.

 

Steve’s breath was coming hard and fast. It was warm inside the truck, but the cold feeling inside him had gotten bigger and heavier with every minute that passed. And there had been—he checked the clock—fifty-seven of them, according to green, hard-edged numbers. At least, since he’d gotten in the car. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d first gotten home, let alone how long it had been since she’d left the trailer…

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Panicking wasn’t going to help anything. _If only that fact had stopped anyone from panicking, ever._

There were five places she usually went. He’d started learning this when he was sixteen, when she’d first started wandering at night and he’d first started skipping school to…well, to help pay the bills.

Only problem was, he’d already looked all five places. And sometimes…sometimes she just wandered. Forgot which streets were which, in a town she’d lived in for eighty-some years.

Steve mashed the brakes in the middle of the deserted road, came to a dead stop. He slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, once, twice, three times. Then he dropped his forehead against it. _Think, Steve, for fuck’s sake._

There was one place he could still try. It was a slim chance, but it had happened before. He took a deep breath and turned the truck around.

 

Bucky didn’t get to his receiver till past seven the next morning. Of course, a drop off where he had to back in through two lanes of traffic, and he shows up during rush hour.

Twenty minutes and a lot of honking later, he cut his engines and leaned his head back against the seat. He checked the clock. _Time to start logging bunk time._ Not like he’d actually get to sleep for another few hours, but he needed to pick up another shipment before sundown. He stared at the pink and purple sky and felt his heart twist strangely in his chest. It was a bittersweet feeling, homesickness. It was a little less sweet when he remembered he didn’t have a home. Just a tugging feeling in his chest—not towards anywhere specific, but in every direction at once.

 

Steve pulled up outside of the police station and hopped out of the truck. He pulled his sweatshirt tighter around himself. _Please be in here, Pegs,_ he prayed. _Please, please be okay._

The lights inside the station were harsh and abrasive after the dark roads. He squinted around. Where the hell was Clive?

“There’s my Stevie! Hey, kid, been waitin’ for you.”

Steve felt his stomach twist inside out. At least that meant he had Peggy. He forced himself to smile. “Hi, Clive. Where’d you find her?”

Clive clapped him on the shoulder. “Look at you, all bundled up.”

Steve shrugged his sweatshirt off, because he knew he wasn’t getting an answer until he did. At least it was warm in here. He could feel Clive’s gaze pouring over him like dirty water. He wanted to shiver, but he held himself still. Shouldn’t he be used to this by now?

“Found her out by Torn’s Woods,” Clive said finally.

Oh. She and his grandma had had a house out there, once. It had burned down, that was all he knew and all she’d say. She hardly ever went there. In fact, it had been the fifth and last place he’d looked. _Stupid. He might’ve gotten there in time, if he’d—_

“Come back to my office, we can talk things over.”

Steve looked up at the balding officer, gave him a manufactured grin. “I’m so grateful you found her. Thank you.”

 

It took them four hours to unload Bucky’s trailer. _Four fucking hours_. Then they had the audacity to accuse him of stealing one of the cases.

His response of ‘I wouldn’t steal your shitty beer if I were dying of thirst’ didn’t make them any happier, but they re-counted at least. And, _what do you fucking know,_ discovered they’d been wrong the first time. _And they act like I’m the idiot. At least I can count._

That didn’t leave long to find a place to sleep if he wanted to catch at least four or five hours. He had to pick up his next job before six, and it was well on the wrong side of town. A meal would be nice, too.

He stopped at a rest stop almost an hour later. He was north of town by a lot, but he hadn’t been able to find a place that wasn’t full.

He needed something to eat before he could sleep, so he hopped out of the truck and went into the mini mart for a sandwich. He bought a pack of smokes, too, because really, what was he trying to prove?

The clerk looked down at his Nicorette and his Marlboro’s, and then back up at him. _I’m aware of the hypocrisy, thanks._

“Cash or card?”

Bucky fumbled in his wallet before he remembered he’d given the last of his money to Steve and pulled out his debit card instead.

Back outside, he was halfway to his truck and tearing into the sandwich when he heard a voice behind him.

“Hey, can I bum one of those?”

Bucky turned around. A blonde woman in daisy dukes and a ripped T-shirt was walking across the parking lot. She seemed to be in her late thirties, but Bucky couldn’t tell her real age for the life of him. Her face was lined, her hair was flat and dirty, her teeth grimy and stained.

But it wasn’t just that. There was something dead behind her eyes, like she’d been this way for a thousand years, and was doomed to a thousand more just like them.

“Sure.” He tucked the sandwich in his pocket, tore into the carton with his thumb and pulled out two. Then he held up the sandwich. “Do you…you want some food?”

She took the cigarettes, turned them over in her fingers. She looked back up at him. “I only asked for one. Why’d you give me two?”

Bucky swallowed, a nasty taste rising in the back of his throat. For the last twelve hours, all he’d been thinking about was Steve. But now his thoughts took a darker turn. Was this what Steve would look like? In how long? Twenty years? Ten? Five?

He shoved the carton in his pocket and held out the sandwich.

“You should eat something.” And god knows Bucky had lost his appetite, anyway.

 

Steve wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. _There’s just not enough Listerine in the world for my line of work…_

Clive touched the side of his face, as if he were tucking nonexistent hair behind Steve’s ear.

“You’re so pretty, Stevie.”

_And you’re higher after an orgasm than I am on molly and Jaeger combined._

Clive cocked his head to the side, looking like his brain was roving the surface of Mars, with no intentions of coming back down to earth anytime soon. “So, so pretty…”

“Thanks, Clive. Um, can I see my aunt now?” _If you put her in the drunk tank again, so help me, I will actually punch you this time…_

“Right. Sorry. She’s on one of the cots in the break room. And…Steve?”

Steve froze in the doorway, wiped the revulsion off his face and plastered a smile on top of it before he turned around. “Yeah, Clive?”

“Thank you.”

Steve felt his smile flicker. “You’re welcome.” He really wished Clive wouldn’t thank him. It implied he had a choice.

 

It was almost three am by the time Steve pulled up outside of the trailer.

Peggy had fallen asleep again in the truck, but she was getting more lucid now. She had a long scratch on her arm--which she couldn’t tell him where she got--but she was okay otherwise. He whispered another prayer of thanks for that, just in case there was still a god watching this sad little mess he called a life.

“Do you think you can walk in, Peg?” he asked, as softly as he could.

Her eyes widened as she glanced around. “Did you have to find me again?”

Steve took a deep breath. She was coming around, finally. It had taken her longer than usual. “Let’s go inside, Pegs.”

She looked down, clenched her hands together in the blanket. “You shouldn’t have to do that, Steve. I’m so…sorry…” her voice descended into a coughing fit. Steve put his hand on her shoulder, as gently as possible.

“It’s okay. I’m here. Let’s get you some water.”

Peggy leaned back in her seat, stared out the windshield at the blowing snow in the truck’s headlights. “I don’t want some water. I want a brain that works. I want to help you, instead of…” she looked at him.

He quirked the edge of his mouth up. An honest smile, one of his few. “You have helped me. You’ve done everything for me. Let me take care of you.”

Peggy shook her head. “But you shouldn’t have to, Steve. You should be somewhere else—anywhere but here.”

Steve opened the car door. “Come on. Let’s get inside.” He walked around the truck to let her out, took his sweatshirt off and put it over her head to shield her from the snow.

“Put that back on…Steve…” She was coughing again, and there was no way he was listening to her.

“Come on, just a little farther…”

“I…can…still walk…” Peggy hauled herself up the last step, as if to prove a point, and then collapsed onto the couch. “Walked out of here just fine, apparently,” Steve heard her whisper.

He shut the door and dropped to the floor next to the couch. As he curled up on the rug, he felt her hand reach down to find his. He linked his fingers through it and held it to his forehead. “It’s gonna be okay, Pegs. I’ll take care of you.”

“I know, Steve. But you shouldn’t have to.”

 

It was past seven pm by the time Bucky got loaded up again. He cracked his neck and clambered into the cab of his truck. Only one arm and a too-full Styrofoam cup of coffee made it a little precarious, but he’d had practice.

He hadn’t gotten much sleep. Steve’s face kept flashing in his mind, and every time he thought about Steve, he felt a pang of guilt. He should have done more, somehow. He could, at least, stop fantasizing about a guy whose life was probably hell.

And yet, somehow, all he could think about was going back and seeing him again. He could ask Clint for another route through central Montana…

It was dumb, yeah. But it was something to look forward to. And Bucky sorely needed that.

 

Steve stretched and groaned—quietly so he wouldn’t wake up Peg. Sleeping on the floor had probably been stupid, but god knows he’d slept in worse places. And he’d wanted—he’d needed—to be near Peggy. Or, at least between her and the door.

And she insisted on sleeping on the couch, so here he was.

He got up, as quietly as he could, and walked toward the coffeemaker. Then he saw the car keys lying on the floor. _Shit._ He’d promised an hour…He didn’t know what time it was, but it was light outside. He grabbed the keys and picked his way through the leftover snow towards the truck.

Bert was, predictably, not happy.

“Apparently you don’t charge by the hour, since you have no concept of time.”

He tossed Bert the keys. “I’m really sorry.”

“Keep your apologies. Buy a fucking watch.”

“I know, and I’m so, so sorry, but thank you, so, so much—“

“Did you find her, then?”

Steve looked up in surprise, wondering, not for the first time, how many fucks Bert _actually_ gave about them. “Uh, yeah. I did. Actually, could I…” He almost stopped talking at the frosty look Bert was giving him, but pushed ahead. “Could I um, borrow some bandages?”

“Don’t say _borrow_ like you’re going to bring them back.”

“I…Can I have some, please? Peggy…”

“Is she okay?” Bert’s face darkened with something that was close to sincerity. Steve took that as encouragement.

“She’s okay, I just want to keep it clean. I’ll, um…I’ll try to pay you back.”

Bert just smirked at him. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll try.”

He disappeared into the house, and reappeared a few minutes later with a plastic bag.

Steve took a step closer, fiddling with the bottom of his sweatshirt. “I could, um, pay you back some other way…Any way you’d like…”

“I’d like to be paid the way where you give me green paper with the little dead guy faces on it, but that’s not happening anytime soon.”

Steve winced. “I know. But I can make you happy.” He looked up, licked his lips invitingly. “They say money can’t buy happiness…”

Bert’s glare just got frostier. “Thanks but no thanks. I’ve already got diabetes, I don’t need HIV.”

Well. That stung. “I’m clean,” said Steve, through his teeth.

Bert leaned against the doorway, unimpressed. “Why? Cause you hosed yourself off and said a Hail Mary? When’s the last time you got tested?”

The answer to that was ‘never,’ but Steve pushed it to the back of his mind. “I use protection. I’m not an idiot.”

“’Protection,’ huh?” Bert huffed a mirthless laugh. “What the hell are they teaching you kids in sex ed these days?”

“I wouldn’t know, I dropped out.” It came out more bitter than he’d intended.

“Well, it’s heart warming to know you’re keeping the family traditions alive.” Bert dropped the bag onto the doorstep and slammed the door.

Steve walked back to the trailer, the sun warming slowly on his back. He was still exhausted from last night, but he needed to walk to town and buy food. _And some goddamn shoes,_ he reminded himself, bending down to pull a sliver of glass out of his foot. And he couldn’t really afford not to work today. He was too deep in debt to Bert already, and it was starting to grate on whatever scraps of pride he had left. He didn’t take charity, damn it.

Except when it was offered by charmingly awkward truckers, apparently…

He shouldn’t think about Bucky. He’d probably never see him again. But he’d like to.

It was a dumb thing to fantasize about. Such a slim chance, in a big, wide world. But it was something to look forward to. And Steve sorely needed that.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry if this was kinda slow, but I wanted to fill in some back story and character stuff. Steve and Bucky will interact more in the next one, I promise.  
> For now, have a plate full of angst.
> 
> More random notes on characterization~~  
> So, yeah, Steve and Peggy are related in this au. Sorry if that squicks you, but it worked for modern Steve so yeah it happened, sorry >_< For the record I think they're cute together, and I hope I did Peggy justice.  
> If you're wondering if 'Clint' is the Clint you're thinking of, yeah Clint Barton is Bucky's dispatcher in this universe. (Clive and Bert are OCs, btw)
> 
> Thanks again for reading!!


	3. Excuses, Excuses...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this took me a while to post. I wanted to figure out the direction for the rest of the plot, though, and I think I've got it now. Thanks for reading!

It had not been a good month for Steve Rogers.

Work had been slow lately, and Peggy, well…She hadn’t been improving. The cough kept getting worse. No matter how hard Steve tried—to get her warm, keep her fed, force her to sleep—she just kept slipping further away. Forgetting him, forgetting herself. He tried to be her memory for her, tell her the stories she forgot, over and over. Tell her where she was, who she was. _You’re on our couch, Peg. Do you remember? It fell off the back of a truck in ‘09. Do you remember this? It’s yours, Peg. You taught me how to shoot it when I was thirteen. We sat out by the creek and sent Campbell’s cans flying. Do you remember me, Peg? What’s my name?_

He’d thought he’d known cold before, but nothing, _nothing,_ compared to the feeling in his gut when she first got that question wrong. _What’s my name, Peg?_

She’d stared at him, cataloguing each of his features, but he knew they didn’t make any sense. Didn’t make up a collective whole in her head.

That had been two weeks ago and every morning since, Steve had woken up on the floor, sitting beside the couch with his arm wrapped around her. Like if he hung on tight enough, never let go, he could keep her together, keep her warm, keep her with him. It didn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference, but at least he knew she wouldn’t wander.

Today hadn’t been a good day for Steve, either. It had started off with a particularly nasty customer this morning—he kept pulling Steve’s hair and calling him names. Their encounter ended with the guy slamming Steve’s head against the bathroom stall and throwing a crumpled twenty onto the ground.

Steve groaned tiredly and rubbed the back of his head. _“_ Dick,” he muttered, flattening the twenty out between his fingers. He needed a haircut. He usually kept it too short to yank on.

Things didn’t get any better once he’d pulled himself off the floor and gone outside to see a mother standing next to a minivan. Her front tire was flat; her kids were screaming. He offered to help her change the tire—and got a bottle thrown at his head.

Steve was so done with this day, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning.

He decided to head into town, because he needed to go shopping. He was also hoping to find a drunk cowboy or two, tell them it wasn’t gay if they closed their eyes, and make a few bucks. He was a little low on grocery money.

That was his excuse, at least, for why his feet led him into a bar.

The Chalcedony Cello looked a little dingy from the outside, but it was owned and operated by one of the nicest people Steve knew.

“Hey, Phil,” he said, waving at the bartender.

Phil looked up and beamed at him. “Steve! How’s things?”

Steve slid onto a stool and leaned across the bar. “Oh, you know, the usual. I brought you some scratchers.” He pulled out two lottery tickets and tucked them into Phil’s breast pocket.

Phil blushed. “Steve, you shouldn’t have…”

Steve smiled conspiratorially. “Hey, you never know when you’re gonna get lucky…” He winked, and Phil ducked his head, focusing devoutly on the glass he was wiping.

“You know me, I don’t expect to win, I just like playing…” He set the glass down and picked up another. “So what’ll it be today?”

Steve clenched his fist under the bar. The truth was, he knew exactly why he’d walked in here. He needed a drink.

‘I need a drink’ was a phrase that got tossed around a lot. In Steve’s opinion, most people needed a drink like they needed coffee or aspirin—something to keep you going, make life a little easier. But for Steve, it was an attempt to quiet the endless, buzzing worry, like raindrops on the tin roof of his skull. Peggy. Money. Where the hell he was gonna be in ten years—The thoughts chased each other through the maze of his mind, so that even when he closed his eyes he never got rest. They gnawed at him, dragged him down, stacked themselves up into an aching, heaving tiredness that built up in his soul.

Steve needed a drink like he needed sleep.

When Steve looked up, Phil was fixing him with those calm, concerned eyes. He was starting to say something when somebody tapped Steve on the shoulder.

“Hey, cutie. Can I buy you a drink?”

Steve set his face into a smile and turned around. “Sure.” The guy wasn’t bad looking—mid forties, worn boots, kind eyes. Steve let his smile get a little bigger. _Lucky already. Hopefully he’ll be nicer than the guy this morning._

Steve spun back around as the cowboy sat down next to him. “My usual, Coulson?”

Something flashed in Phil’s eyes. Regret, he supposed it was. If you can feel regret for something that hasn’t happened yet.

But he gave Steve a soft, tight smile. “Coming right up.”

 

Despite his best efforts, it was more than a month before Bucky got back to Montana.

By the time he pulled up to the rest stop and hopped down, the spring snow had turned into summer thunder, and the heat was rising up from the ground in waves.

He looked around, feeling suddenly stupid. What had he expected? Steve, waiting for him with a bouquet of roses? For all Bucky knew, Steve drifted from town to town as he pleased, and would never be back here again.

He walked inside the mini mart, bought his usual coffee, cigarettes, and gum while ignoring the clerk’s pointed staring. Then he sat in the cab of his truck, miserably eating a Twinkie and searching the truck stop with his eyes one last time.

No Steve.

Bucky balled the wrapper up, threw it into the pile on the seat beside him and pulled back onto the road. The clouds were low and heavy in the sky today, crackling with thunder and the unfulfilled promise of rain, and Bucky felt anxious and jumpy, his hand cramping around the steering wheel.

He didn’t know how much longer he could take this. The new scenery flying past each day, blending together until it all looked the same. The people who stared at him but never really saw him. The constant, tight schedule that kept him going as much as he hated it. He didn’t know where he would be without this job—drunk in a ditch, probably—but he wasn’t sure this was much better.

Steve had been a break in the clouds, the sun shining through the storm. But like everything else Bucky saw, everyone else he met, he’d kept moving and left him behind.

Bucky swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, headed south into the town. He was feeling low—lower than he had in a while. That was his excuse, at least, for why his feet led him into a bar.

He wasn’t planning on drinking. Just grabbing a Coke, sitting down for a while, and clearing his spinning head. He had to keep moving anyway, couldn’t afford more than an hour before he got back on the road.

The Chalcedony Cello. It was a shitty dive bar; that much was clear. Bucky squeezed his way through several over-sized, inaccurately-parked pickup trucks to the front door. There was music blaring into the street from the bar’s windows, and it only got louder when Bucky stepped inside. He scanned the room, wondering why the place was so rowdy at noon. Then he saw what everyone was looking at, and his heart skipped about three beats and fell down a flight of stairs.

_“Steve?”_

 

Steve was feeling _good._ The room was a warm, pleasant spin of whistling and hollering, of red light and brown wood. The music was thrumming in his chest, tugging at his body.

_“She’s my, cherry pie, cool drink of water such a sweet surprise…”_

He wasn’t sure when he’d hopped up onto the bar, but he was up here now. He pulled his shirt off, swung it over his head. Someone was holding a drink up towards him, so he took it, downed it—it was smooth in the back of his throat, the bitter aftertaste washed away by too many before it. _“Ain’t got no money, ain’t got no gas, but we’ll get where we’re goin’ if we swing real fast…”_

The biker who had handed it to him was wolf-whistling in encouragement, so Steve turned, spun, dropped low, rocked back up again. _“Put a smile on your face, ten miles wide, looks so good bring a tear to your eye…”_

Steve dropped flat on the bar, moved his hips, rolled over, threw his head back. The biker grabbed him by the jaw and kissed him, hard. He smelled like sawdust and smoke, tasted like tobacco and Tecate. Steve fisted his hand in the biker’s collar, pulled him closer.

And that’s when he heard it. His name, whispered, but with so much intensity he could make it out through the haze of noise.

_“Steve?”_

Steve broke away and searched the room until his eyes caught on the figure in the doorway. “Bucky?”

The biker grabbed the back of Steve’s neck and pulled him closer. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

 _“Swinging so hard, we forgot to lock the door. In walks her daddy, standin’ six-foot-four…”_ Steve pushed the biker off, swung his legs over the edge of the bar.

Bucky was striding through the room towards him, tension in every line of his body. He was wearing a ratty old baseball cap and the same red Henley he’d had on the night they’d met. Steve heard himself laughing. Bucky stopped in front of him, utterly un-amused.

The biker turned toward Bucky, looking like a wet cat. “I was here first. Get your own.”

“There’s enough of me to go around,” Steve said, hooking his legs around Bucky and dragging him up against the bar. He slung his arms around Bucky’s neck and leaned in close. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, big guy.”

Bucky shrugged, as best as he could with Steve draped around him. “Had a route through here.”

“Sounds like you’d better get back on the road, then.” The biker grabbed Bucky by the back of his jacket, hauled him out of Steve’s embrace. “I’m not about to share.”

Bucky pulled away and stepped back, looking tired. Steve noticed, then, how his cheeks were hollow under his scruff, how dark circles were forming under those big, blue eyes. Steve had spent weeks thinking about Bucky, and his floppy hair and his sad, kind smile…But now that he was here, Steve was reminded how strung-out and exhausted he’d looked.

The biker shoved him. “I said, fuck off, _Bucky._ ”

Bucky just glared at him quietly, and then looked back at Steve. “Looks like you’re busy at the moment, anyway.”

Steve bit his lip. He opened his mouth to say something, although he didn’t know what yet, when the biker cut him off.

“Hey. Asshole. Pay attention. He’s mine.”

Bucky turned, slowly. His voice was a quiet growl. “Actually, he’s not _yours._ And he’s not a piece of meat, so I’m not going to fight over him like two dogs in an alley.”

The biker swung and hit Bucky in the jaw. Bucky stumbled back, winced. Then he started shrugging off his jacket resignedly. “Fine, cocksucker, you asked for it.”

The biker slipped off of the stool and produced a knife from somewhere in a fluid motion. Steve’s breath caught in his throat. _Fuck._ The world was slowing down and speeding up at the same time, and his head was too blurry to do anything about it. “Bucky, don’t…”

The biker came at Bucky, but Bucky was faster. His arm snaked out to grab the man’s wrist, twisted, slipped underneath his arm and behind him. The knife clattered to the floor as Bucky’s foot came up and connected with the back of the biker’s knee. While he stumbled, Bucky grabbed him by the hair and slammed his forehead against the bar.

He fell to the floor. It didn’t look like he was getting up anytime soon.

Bucky picked his jacket back up and shook it off. He looked back up at Steve. “I guess I’ll see you around.” Then he turned and headed for the door.

Steve stared after him, open-mouthed.

Phil hit him in the arm, handed him his shirt. “That’s _the_ Bucky, right? The one you’ve been talking about?”

Steve nodded, still staring out the door. “Yeah,” he whispered.

“So follow him, you numbnut.”

 

Steve slid off the counter, picked up the biker’s knife, and walked outside.

The sun was way too bright, and walking made the spinning a little worse. He could see Bucky’s truck parked on the side of the road, though, so he headed for it, tugging his shirt on.

“Hey, wait up.”

Bucky turned. He’d been doing a walk around of the trailer, apparently. He paused, hand on the front tire. “Sorry. Looked like you had your hands full.”

Steve shrugged. “Wasn’t having much fun, though.”

“Really? Looked to me like you were.”

Steve stopped a few feet away from him, flicking the knife open and shut. “Looks can be deceiving.”

Bucky eyed the knife. “You stole it?”

“He tried to hurt you with it.” Steve ventured a little closer, gave Bucky his most charming smile. “We can’t have that.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Bucky smiled back, frank and sarcastic at the same time. “See you round, Steve.” He turned to climb into the cab.

Steve stepped forward until he was leaning against the trailer and looked up at Bucky. “Hey, wait, do you really have to leave?”

“I’m a trucker. Kind of in the job description.”

Steve tried a different tact. “That was pretty smooth back there. I didn’t know you could fight like that.”

Bucky took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, well somehow whenever I run into you I end up getting punched, so…”

Steve looked down at his shoes. The shoes _Bucky_ had given him money for, even after he’d hit him. “I’m sorry about that, Buck. Really.”

“It’s alright.” Bucky slid down from the seat back onto the ground. “No hard feelings.”

Steve looked back up. Bucky’s eyes were blue, and grey, and green…like a kaleidoscope of fragmented color. He’d forgotten how beautiful they were. Before he could stop himself, he was slipping forward, his hand full of Bucky’s shirt and their lips colliding.

A little messy, maybe, but it made something warm and fuzzy spread inside of Steve’s chest. He pulled back. “Was that a twenty dollar kiss?”

Bucky smirked. “Not quite,” he growled, “But this will be.” His hand fisted in Steve’s hair as he pushed him up against the truck with his body, crashing their mouths together so hard their teeth clacked. Steve’s stomach flipped over like he was free falling. There was so much hunger in this kiss, the desperation of too many lonely nights. Steve answered it with a desperation of his own, with the heavy, shaking tiredness of long, cold days. Steve’s hands found their way down Bucky’s torso, and then down the front of his jeans, and Bucky shuddered against him. His warm fingers spread across Steve’s back under his shirt, nails raking his skin.

And then just as suddenly as he had begun, Bucky stepped back. “I can’t do this, Steve.”

Steve stared at him, chest heaving. “Wh…what?”

Bucky shook his head, staring at the ground. “I can’t handle this…Just a little piece of you, and then nothing, for weeks. I’m gonna go crazy.”

Steve stepped forward. “Sounds like you need a bigger piece of me, then. And come back a little sooner.”

Bucky caught Steve’s face in his hand, ran a thumb along his lower lip. “I can’t, Steve.”

Steve took a shaky breath. “Why not?”

“It’s what I do. It’s the way I am. I signed up to be alone.”

Steve leaned against Bucky’s hand, and Bucky dropped it.

“Spend the day with me, then,” said Steve, embarrassed at the needy undercurrent in his voice.

“I can’t, Steve,” Bucky repeated. “I really can’t. I’ve gotta get going.”

Steve bit his lip where Bucky had thumbed it, felt his breath coming fast and harsh in his chest. _Bucky_ couldn’t take this? What about Steve? It was too much, to know Bucky remembered him, had maybe even come looking for him, only to walk away again and leave him behind. _Forget_ about him. No. Steve had been forgotten too many times in his life. He was not getting left in the dust again.

He flicked the knife open and shut, open and shut, with twitching fingers. And then he held his breath, darted his hand out, and stabbed a hole in Bucky’s tire.

There was a hiss of air like a gunshot, and then the tire began to bleed out slowly.

Bucky shoved him. "Steve!"

Steve smiled, grimly. "Looks to me like you've got a flat."

Bucky took a step forward and Steve stepped away, his back hitting the hot metal of Bucky's trailer. This was it. He'd finally pushed the guy too far and he was about to get decked.

Bucky's fist was flying at his face. He didn't even bother trying to throw an arm up to shield himself. Bucky deserved a free shot, anyway, after their last meeting.

But then Bucky's fist connected with the trailer next to Steve's head with a thunderous, metallic clang. "Dammit, Steve, do you know how dangerous that is? Those things can explode."

Steve just stared back, at a loss for words. Bucky was angry because he thought Steve could have _injured himself_ while _slashing his tire_?

Not so surprising that he hadn't fought back last time, then. To think Steve had expected Bucky to hurt him—Probably more likely for Bucky to apologize for hurting Steve's hand with his face.

_I didn’t think they made ‘em that nice anymore…_

Steve smiled softly. “Don’t worry, I’ve gotten pretty good at it. My only revenge if I don’t get paid or if somebody’s too rough with me. I don’t mind so much, but I figure it’ll teach them a lesson for next time.”

“I oughta teach _you_ a lesson, you little punk.” Bucky’s hand had found its way to Steve’s shoulder, pinning him to the trailer.

Steve let his eyes widen. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, big guy.”

Bucky stepped back, stared up at the thunderclouds gathered over their heads with a long, exasperated sigh. “For fuck’s sake, Steve.”

Steve started laughing. He couldn’t help it—the absurdity of the situation hit him full force. He sagged against the truck, rubbed his face with his hand. “Looks like you’re stuck here, now.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you think I can’t change a tire?”

Steve grinned. “I’m willing to bet you can’t. Most people don’t carry the tools, or they’re not insured to. And by the look on your face, you’re no exception.”

Bucky glared at him.

“I’ve picked up a few things over the years, Buck. And I’ve got you, at least until your mechanic shows up.”

 

Bucky called Clint and attempted to explain himself. Clint wasn’t happy, of course, but Bucky had had so few delays over the years—and never ever complained about the routes or the jobs he was given—so Clint owed him a free pass and they both knew it.

He could hear Clint eating corn nuts through the receiver, and he knew Clint was sitting on the edge of his desk, the phone pinned with his shoulder while his fingers flew over his keyboard.

“So, just so I’ve got this straight, first you beg me for a route through butt-fuck nowhere, Montana—after five years of no requests whatsoever, I might add—and now you mysteriously have an out-of-nowhere flat tire, huh?”

Bucky shot Steve a death glare. “Yeah, that sums it up. Thanks, Clint.”

“Yeah, right, no problem. As your supervisor, I see nothing suspicious about this, whatsoever.”

“How soon can you get somebody out here?”

“Well, I’m sending the nearest repair service to your location now, but it’s gonna be a few hours, so get comfortable.”

Bucky took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. Great. Thanks, Clint.” He hung up the phone and turned towards Steve. “Fine. You got me, at least till three. The question is, now that you’ve got me…” He grabbed Steve by his T-shirt and dragged him forward, until their faces were an inch apart. “What are you going to do with me?”

Steve smiled. His stare was filthy as it traveled from Bucky’s eyes, to his lips, and back up to his eyes. “I have a few ideas.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cherry Pie by Warrant is the best stripping song, hands down. 
> 
> So at first I was worried that Steve stabbing Bucky's tire was a little OOC, then I remembered he literally wrestled a helicopter in the last movie to keep Bucky from leaving, and I was like nah, it's good.
> 
> Originally this had a second half but it got really long so I split it up. It's kind of a cliffhanger now? idk.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading and thanks so much to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos, I'm so freakin appreciative I can't even tell you. 
> 
> (And yes, I made a who-the-hell-is-bucky reference, sorry not sorry)
> 
> What do y'all think of bartender Phil Coulson? I kind of love him.


	4. Like Razorblades Under Your Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve continues to be sexy, tragic, and problematic, Bucky gets more protective.  
> (it's basically just a big long angsty conversation, IDK)
> 
> Couldn't think of a chapter title so I just chose song lyrics. (Streets of Gold by 3oh3 is underrated though, you should go listen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a real kick in the teeth of a day, but I'm trying to do the whole "positive coping mechanism" thing everyone keeps talking about, so I thought I'd write something. 
> 
> (It kind of worked, I'm a lot calmer now)
> 
> As a result though, this turned out way more angsty than I meant it to but oh well that's what you came for right?

“When you said you had ‘ideas,’ I gotta admit, this is not what I was expecting.”

Steve turned, halfway up the chain link fence. “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, something that didn’t break the law?”

Steve reached the top and perched there, smiling down at him. “If you were planning to solicit sex from me, I’d like to remind you that’s currently illegal in the state of Montana.”

 _Your sassy ass mouth should be illegal in the state of Montana…_ Bucky grabbed the fence, rattled it. “Man, I haven’t done this in a while. You think it’ll hold me?”

“It’s plenty sturdy.” Steve kicked his legs against it to prove his point. “But if you’re scared, I could always call your mom to come get you…”

“Ok, ok, hilarious. I’ve got one arm, lay off.”

“Well, that’s why I’m up here, I’ll give you a hand.” Steve beamed down at him, looking way too amused.

Bucky tried to glare at him, but he couldn’t quite manage it, and it turned into a crooked smile instead. “Alright, I’m coming.” It wasn’t that hard, once he got started. Steve reached down and grabbed his forearm, hauled him up.

“Nice view, huh?” he said, when they were both sitting at the top.

“Not as nice as you,” said Bucky, feeling his cheeks color a little. Why was it so much scarier to compliment Steve than it was to kiss him?

Steve was rolling his eyes, his gaze still fixed on the trees. “I guess you’ve seen better, traveling so much.”

Bucky tried to say he’d never seen anything better than Steve in his life, but the words got caught in his throat. He ended up saying, “Let’s get down before somebody sees us,” instead, and Steve obliged, dropping down to the concrete on the other side.

“So remind me again why you wanted to sneak into a hotel pool?” Bucky asked, staring down at the water, bright blue and stagnant under the heat.

Steve was already pulling his T-shirt off. “Called having fun, Buck, ever heard of it?”

Bucky smirked as Steve stepped out of his jeans. He could definitely think of some fun he’d like to have… _Bad idea, Bucky._ This whole thing was a bad idea—he should have just sat in his truck until the mechanic showed up, he should never have followed a hooker into the woods--

“You’ve gotta take your clothes off, first.” Steve walked—no, _sauntered_ —towards him, in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs. They were white, and already didn’t leave much to the imagination. Bucky pictured them wet, and felt his skin flush hot and prickly under his clothes. _Jesus, Barnes, you need to get laid._

Steve grabbed the collar of his jacket. “What is this? Do you ever take this off? It’s like 100 degrees.”

Bucky huffed at him. “It was cold when I got dressed this morning.” He slipped out of the jacket and kicked off his shoes. Steve was already reaching for the bottom of his shirt, but Bucky pulled away. “Actually, I uh, usually leave that on.”

Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s a pool, Bucky. Water is wet.”

“I know, but…” Bucky winced, looked down. “My arm. It’s, well…People don’t usually find it much of a turn-on.”

Steve cupped his face, kissed him on the lips, feather-light. “I’ll bet every inch of you is beautiful.” He leaned in closer to whisper in Bucky’s ear. “And when I’m through with you, you’ll believe it. Even if I have to kiss every…last…inch…” He kissed his way down from Bucky’s jaw to his neck to his collarbone. Bucky opened his mouth to answer, but all he could do was gasp in air. All he wanted was his damn clothes off, _now,_ wanted more of his skin touching Steve. _How does he do that so easily?_ How did he know exactly where to touch, or pluck the right words out of thin air? Whenever Bucky tried, it was messy and fumbling.

Steve’s hands were tugging his shirt up, slowly, and this time, Bucky let him. Even though he couldn’t help instinctively angling his left side away from Steve.

Steve didn’t react to his scars, just skated his hands down Bucky’s chest to his hips. A moment later, Bucky’s jeans were a pile on the ground. _How did that happen?_

Steve looked back up, gave him a sultry smile—and shoved him backwards.

The water enveloped him, shockingly cold after the caress of the sun and Steve’s hands, and Bucky floundered frantically. He managed to get hold of the side of the pool and righted himself, spluttering. “You bastard!”

Steve was bent backwards with laughter. “Oh my god, your face…” Bucky splashed him, and Steve jumped back. “Hey! Alright, alright, I’m coming in.” He dove in smoothly, surfaced, and blinked a few times. His eyelashes were even prettier when they were wet.

Bucky looked down at the rippling water, feeling suddenly shy again. What the hell was Steve’s game? Why did he want Bucky around so badly? _It’s not like I’m rich, or sexy, or even particularly entertaining…_

Steve swam up and leaned backwards against the edge of the pool. “Man, I think one of those guys slipped me a Rohypnol, I am feeling _extra_ smooth.”

“A Ro-what-now?”

“Roofies, Bucky.” He shut his eyes. “Joke’s on him, benzos are my favorite.”

“Steve…” Bucky gripped the tile at the pool’s edge, staring at Steve’s serene face. “You mean someone tried to _rape_ you?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s disgusting.” Bucky’s voice was tight in his throat.

“If he offered me one, I woulda done whatever he wanted, anyway.” Steve’s gaze slid towards him. “Do you think _that’s_ disgusting?”

Bucky looked away. “I’m just worried about you.”

Steve was across the water between them in seconds, his face so close Bucky could see the drops of water hanging off his eyelashes. “No, I want you to tell me, Buck, what do you think is worse? Drugging somebody for some harmless fun? Or letting a stranger do absolutely anything they want to you, just for a few good hours of sleep?”

“Steve…” Bucky felt sick to his stomach. “It’s not my place to judge you. What matters is how you feel. If you need pills to sleep—“

“I don’t _need_ them. It’s just…” Now it was Steve’s turn to look away. He crossed his arms. “It’s just nice not to think, sometimes.”

“I said I wasn’t judging you,” Bucky repeated. “And for the record, taking advantage of someone is a long way from ‘harmless fun.’”

“Of course it’s harmless. What does it hurt, really?”

“ _You_ , Steve.” Bucky had to hold himself back from shouting.

Steve shrugged, spoke softly. “If I get what I want either way, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Look at me,” Bucky said, his voice practically a snarl. Steve raised his eyes, and Bucky noticed for the first time how glassy they looked. _How out of it is he?_ “It’s not the same thing, Steve, not by a goddamned long shot. You’re not a...a mattress, you’re a human being.”

Steve just stared at him.

“Look, you can…you can argue about the moral grays of trading sex, but…At least it’s something you’re agreeing to. Wouldn’t it scare you, to be blacked out?” _Helpless?_ his brain added _._ The thought of Steve like that certainly scared the hell out of Bucky. Made him wish he could be there, somehow, make sure nobody so much as looked at him…

“If they’re gonna fuck me anyway, why not sleep through it?”

Bucky felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He stared into Steve’s wide blue eyes, trying to tell if he was serious. “Steve—“ he choked out.

“Hey!”

They both whirled around.

One of the hotel’s employees was standing at the edge of the pool, a pimply teenager in an over-sized uniform. “Alright, fun’s over. Get out.”

“I’d like to rent a room,” Bucky said coolly, as if he _weren’t_ standing in a pool in his underwear. Steve needed somewhere to sleep this off, anyway. _I’ll be damned if I’m letting a possibly-roofied Steve wander around alone._

The employee regarded them, unimpressed. “For how long?”

“I don’t know, an hour or two?”

“We’re not _that_ kind of hotel, sir,” he answered frostily, eyeing Steve.

Bucky stepped between them. “Fine, a night, then.”

“It’s sixty-five dollars per person, per night.”

Steve leaned around Bucky. “We’ll give you forty for two hours.” He reached over to his jeans, dug in the pocket, and pulled out a baggy of white pills. “And one of these, for your trouble.”

The kid stared at them for few moments, and then shrugged. “Deal.”

 

"What did you give him?" asked Bucky, as Steve opened the door to their room.

Steve looked back over his shoulder, eyes twinkling. "Ibuprofen with the label scratched off."

Bucky couldn’t help but smile. "You’re terrible…”

"Hey, I never said what it was." He jimmied the key around in the door until it clicked. "Technically not a lie.”

They stumbled inside. Steve flopped onto the bed while Bucky locked the door behind them.

"He shouldn't be taking drugs, anyway."

Bucky walked over to stand beside the bed. "So technically, you were doing him a favor? Is that your story?"

"Yeah." Steve's face sobered for a second. "He's gotta be...what, seventeen? Eighteen? Got his whole life ahead of him." He leaned back against the pillow, closed his eyes. "Shouldn't be doing that to himself."

“How old are you?” The question slipped out before Bucky could help it. Didn’t _Steve_ have his whole life ahead of _him?_

Steve opened one eye. “Nineteen,” he said, reflexively.

“How come I feel like you’ve been turning nineteen for a few years now?”

Steve cracked a smile. “Well, you know what they say. Eighteen’s too on the nose, twenty’s too old. Are you coming to bed, or what?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Okay, well, how old are you?”

“Twenty-five. Now you.”

“Fine. I’ve been nineteen since I was sixteen.” He bit his lip. “So…six years now.”

Bucky stared down at him, feeling ill again. _He’s been lying about his age since he was sixteen?_ Bucky wanted to find everyone who’d gotten within fifty yards of an underage Steve and punch their teeth in.

Steve looked at him strangely, a cynical glint out of place in his blue eyes. “What? Too old for your taste?”

“Steve…no…” Bucky shook his head helplessly, disgusted with the whole concept.

“Then c’mere.” Steve grabbed his hand and yanked him down onto the musty comforter.

Bucky rolled over with a groan, pulled the blanket out from underneath them and laid it over Steve. Steve cuddled up to him, far too handsy to be falling asleep.

Bucky pushed his touch away, gently. “How long are you planning on turning 19?” he whispered.

Steve huffed a laugh against his shoulder. “I’ll keep turning nineteen until I’m, oh say, twenty-five, when I’ll start turning twenty, until twenty-eight, when I’ll start turning twenty-five.”

“What about thirty?”

Steve shrugged against him. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

Bucky winced. The _if_ was implied.

“Now stop all this talking, and let’s have some of that fun I told you about.” Steve’s voice was a husky whisper in his ear. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be seeing more stars than a fucking astronomer.”

Bucky barely had time to catch his breath before Steve leaned over and kissed him. He was so warm, on top of Bucky, wrapped around him, kissing along his jaw with his hands under Bucky’s shirt.

Bucky sucked in air desperately, his hand fisting in the comforter as Steve ground down against his hips.

“Steve—“

Steve was heat and pressure and intensity and Bucky was simultaneously smothered by it and breathing it in. Steve shoved up his shirt, his lips on Bucky’s chest, kissing their way down, thumbs under his waistband now—

“Steve, stop.”

Steve paused to look up at him, his thumbs still making slow, teasing circles on Bucky’s hips. Staying still was a challenge, but Bucky somehow accomplished it. He gave Steve the sternest look he could manage. “I brought you up here to sleep, Steve.”

Those blue eyes fixed him with a disparaging stare. “Bucky, you’re with a hooker, in a hotel room you bought by the hour, and it’s not even dark outside. There’s only one thing you’re doing, and it ain’t sleeping.”

 

When Steve woke up, Bucky was sound asleep. He moved carefully, wiped his mouth. He’d drooled on Bucky’s shirt, apparently. He dabbed ineffectually at the cold, wet spot, mortified.

He carefully untangled his legs from Bucky’s, his head pounding like a sledgehammer and a nasty taste coating his mouth. Bucky’s arm was draped across him, but he only stirred slightly when Steve slipped out from underneath it.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as it creaked, and looked at the clock. 2:54. He couldn’t remember a damn thing.

He tried to piece it together. He’d been at the Cello; Bucky had shown up. He remembered that. He’d…slashed Bucky’s tire… _Oh god, did I really do that…_

Oh yeah, then the pool. He still smelled vaguely like chlorine. Suddenly, the conversation they’d had began to trickle back in bits and phrases, and Steve dropped his aching head into his hands. What the hell did Bucky think of him now, with the shit he’d said?

More importantly…What had they done? The bed was pretty messy, but their clothes were on…Steve got up slowly, walked into the bathroom.

He found the switch--the light buzzed on, bright and unforgiving, and Steve regarded himself in the mirror. _What does it matter, what happened? Do you really have a right to complain if anything did?_ Even if Steve had already been asleep, he’d told Bucky he didn’t mind, hadn’t he?

His own words echoed cruelly in his head. _“Of course it’s harmless. What does it hurt?”_

He’d spelled out just how much he didn’t care if he was raped.

 _I just wanted him to remind me why I should._ He’d wanted—needed—to be told that he was alive, sentient, that a yes or no from his lips mattered. Steve knew that, distantly. He'd just needed to hear it.

Steve felt his stomach twist painfully, and he doubled over and heaved into the sink.

He ran the tap, fingers shaking. The bed creaked; he heard Bucky walking up behind him.

“Steve? Are you okay?”

Steve drank out of the tap, choked, spit, drank again and managed to swallow. When he straightened up, Bucky was leaning in the doorway, and Steve froze, feeling suddenly trapped in the tiny bathroom. Their eyes met in the mirror.

Steve turned around, leaned backwards against the sink. “Bucky…Hi. Just a little sick.”

“You should drink some more water.” Bucky disappeared, came back a second later with one of the little plastic cups.

Steve took it, their fingers brushed. He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Bucky…what…” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to admit he couldn’t remember anything. He didn’t know if that was better or worse, more or less humiliating. It was probably worse. But he had to know…

Bucky beat him to it. “Steve…how much do you remember?”

 _Way too much and not nearly enough_ _…_ “I…I remember the pool. I remember kissing you, on the bed.” Steve looked down. “I…I’m sorry, we probably did other stuff, but I don’t remember.”

“No. I told you to stop, and we just slept.”

Steve stared into those puppy-dog eyes, that frank smile…Aw, hell. He didn’t know what to believe…“So that was it?”

“Steve…You were really messed up. And you told me you thought someone might have roofied you, so yeah, we definitely didn’t do anything.” Bucky reached for his shoulder then seemed to think better of it, and stopped. “I wouldn’t do something like that to you. Ever. You know that, right?”

Steve looked down at the cup in his hands. He should probably thank Bucky—even if it weren’t true, at least thank him for going through the trouble of lying—but he couldn’t quite bring himself to.

Bucky huffed out a long, slow breath. His voice was strained, like every word pained him. “Apparently you _didn’t_ know. Well, that’s not how I roll, Steve. You deserve that much respect, at the very, very least. I hope you know that, even if you don’t trust me.”

Steve looked up at those gorgeous, sea-blue eyes, like two pools of absolute sincerity set in an expression of solid concern. “You know, I think I’m starting to, even if I probably shouldn’t.”

“Starting to what?”

Steve smiled. “Trust you.”

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daw. 
> 
> So yeah, in case it wasn't clear or anyone is worried, Bucky's telling the truth, he didn't do anything to Steve (my sweet, beautiful Bucky is not a rapist, smh)  
> I just cut the scene where I did cause a) I thought it was funny, b) the rest of the scene would have been kinda boring, and c) cause it made Steve's fear/disorientation more understandable when he woke up. 
> 
> What do y'all think of Steve giving people ibuprofen as drugs? idk why, but the idea cracked me up and I couldn't help but put it in. (Side note, I know people who have done this in high school, like sold people fake pills/alcohol, and 9 times out of 10 the person will come back and say they got amazingly high off of whatever you gave them. Human beings are strange creatures) 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it/tell me what you liked/disliked. You have no idea how happy they make me. I've been having an awful time lately but legit this has been cheering me up so much. Thank youuuuuuu


	5. The Tangle of Our Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm drunk and can't sleep, here's another chapter of this trash.....

Trust me?Bucky's heart thundered in his chest as he stared down at Steve's bright eyes, feeling like a deer frozen in headlights. The last time someone said those words... Bucky's throat was closing up, his breaths shallow and heavy. He turned around to pick his jacket up off the bed and gripped it tightly, trying to quiet the thoughts spinning through his head like fragments of broken glass. There was a taste like blood, like metal, in the back of his mouth, and for a second he thought he was going to throw up.

"Bucky? Are you okay?"

He sat on the bed, let the room steady around him. "Yeah." He looked away from Steve, looked at the clock. "I should probably get going. It's getting late."

"Oh, right. Sorry about...sorry." Steve walked over slowly and dropped onto the edge of the bed beside Bucky.

"Sorry for what?" Bucky asked.

Steve leaned against him, gently. "For the tire. For being so drunk. For drooling on your shirt."

Bucky laughed softly, pulled the shirt away from his skin. "I didn't even notice."

Steve made a noise in his throat--a sigh, or maybe a laugh--and leaned his head onto Bucky's shoulder. He was on Bucky's right side, so Bucky reached out and wrapped his arm around him. Somehow, it felt like the most intimate thing they'd done.

"And...sorry I'm such a mess." Steve's voice was soft; if they hadn't been sitting so close, Bucky wouldn't have made out the words.

"You're not a mess, Steve."

"Yes, I am. My life's one big mess, and I dragged you into it." Steve turned his face against Bucky's shoulder, spoke even softer, so that Bucky had to strain to hear. "And I haven't made it worth your while, at all."

Bucky winced, squinted at the ugly painting on the opposite wall, trying to figure out what Steve was getting at. "It's...it's okay. You don't owe me anything."

"But your time is money, and I stole some." Steve took a deep breath, a little shaky, like it hurt.

Bucky hugged him tighter. "Only a few hours."

"Can't remember the last time a trucker spent more than twenty minutes with me." Bucky could hear that bitter smirk in his voice. "Guess I'm just too good at my job."

Bucky struggled for the right words, and couldn’t find them. After a few seconds, Steve pulled away and leaned back against the headboard, pulled his feet up onto the bed. He wrapped his arms around his knees, stared at his hands.

Bucky shifted on the bed to face him. “Steve, I...”

“You have to go, I know.” Steve looked back up, fixed his gaze on Bucky’s chest. “Before you leave, we could…” He paused. After a moment, his eyes snapped up to meet Bucky’s, his jaw set. “Why did you come back?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but no words came out. Why did you come back, you idiot? “Um…” he croaked. _I couldn’t stop thinking about you,_ was the truth, but it sounded creepy as hell, even in his head. “I just…I don’t know. I just wanted to see you again.”

Steve was still staring at him, puzzled, like Bucky was an engine that had stranded him in the middle of nowhere, and fixing him was his only way home.

“You seemed…happy that I did…” Bucky ventured.

Steve took a quick little breath, like he’d been caught in a lie. He hugged his knees tighter. “Well, maybe I was.”

Bucky looked away, confused as hell. Steve didn’t say anything else, and Bucky didn’t think he could explain himself if he tried. He stood up. “We should get going.”

Steve picked up Bucky’s jacket, twisted it in his fingers. “Buck…” His voice had gotten quiet again. He muttered something else, but Bucky didn’t catch it.

What came over him, Bucky had no idea, but he reached out a hand to touch Steve’s jaw, lifted his face. Steve didn’t lean into it, like he had when he was buzzed, but he didn’t pull away, either. He looked up at Bucky intently.

Bucky’s fingers were on Steve’s cheek now, his thumb on his chin, and he resisted the urge to run his thumb over that bottom lip. Instead, he whispered, “Whatever you wanna say, Steve, say it.”

Steve looked lost. He darted his tongue out to wet his lips, and suddenly all Bucky could think about was how easy it would be to close the distance and kiss him.

Finally, Steve spoke. “Are you coming back again?”

“Would you like me to?”

Steve swallowed. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Bucky dropped his face. “I can’t make any promises.”

Steve nodded, his gaze had slipped away, his eyes had gone empty again.

Bucky reached for his jacket and Steve let it slip through his fingers. Bucky winced. Did Steve want him to come back that badly? A thought struck him, and he started frisking his jacket. He pulled a Sharpie out of the inner pocket, uncapped it with his teeth, and grabbed Steve’s arm.

“Here. Like I said, no promises, but if you ever need me…”

Steve looked down, held his arm still as Bucky wrote the digits of his phone number on it. “Really?” he asked.

“Yeah. If you need anything.” Bucky shrugged. “Or if you, ya know…ever wanted to talk…I mean, I spend a lot of time just driving, it gets kinda boring. Kinda lonely.”

Steve cradled his forearm with his other hand, stared down at the black numbers. “Alright.” He stood up as Bucky pulled on his jacket. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Bucky looked up and gave Steve a little wink, on impulse. “Just make sure you use it.”

 

Steve walked along the edge of the road, staring down at the pavement. Bucky had offered to drive him home, but Steve had turned him down. He wasn’t going to leave a hotel room without taking a hot shower. Besides, he hadn’t made it to the grocery store yet, so he was headed back into town, anyway.

The ground was still hot as hell, and the asphalt smelled like tar. The numbers on his arm might as well have been branded, he couldn’t stop looking at them, running his fingers over them.

He had Bucky’s number. Steve didn’t have a phone, but the gesture meant something. If you ever need me…Bucky’s words echoed in his head. Steve tried to imagine that ever happening—him picking up a payphone, all casual, just ringing up Bucky, ‘Oh hey, I need a favor, come help me’…not likely.

But Bucky had also said Steve should call him if he just wanted to talk, and…Steve couldn’t decide which was more flattering. The idea that Bucky had offered his services in case Steve ever had a problem, or the idea that Bucky wanted to just talk to him, about…what? The weather? Steve couldn’t imagine his life would make for very interesting conversation. Bucky probably had some good stories, though.

Steve smiled to himself at the thought of Bucky recounting some roadside disaster, his voice gruff and irritated at the memory, probably cussing someone out for their incompetence.

He’d hit the outskirts of town again, so he slowed his pace a bit. He searched the road with his eyes, but all that was left of Bucky’s truck was dusty tire tracks. He turned, heading for the alley that threaded along behind the Cello, a shortcut to the Safeway at the end of the street. He was going over his list in his head—bread, spam, soup—When a voice behind him interrupted his thoughts.

“There you are, cutie pie.”

Steve froze, pulled his hands out of his pockets. He wondered if he could make it into the Cello from here—but it was behind him…He turned around, slowly. The man who had spoken was familiar, somehow…Steve looked him up and down, trying to place him. Oh. Shit. The biker.

It was the guy Bucky had effortlessly knocked out. Steve hoped he didn’t have any hard feelings…He’d brought friends this time, it seemed. A skinny, lanky guy in a leather jacket holding a cigarette, and a short, thicker guy, who was blocking his only way out of the alley onto the street. 

“Hi.” Steve smiled tightly as he summed up his options.

“Your boyfriend doesn’t have any manners.”

“He’s…” Steve thought for a second about lying, pulling the old “my boyfriend’s coming any minute,” routine, but he was pretty sure the look on his face confirmed Bucky was no where close. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he said, instead. “I don’t really know him that well. No hard feelings, huh?”

The biker stepped closer, his friends advanced too. They were both taller, and bigger, and…

“Well he must be somethin’. Cause I wasted my drinks on you, and you ran off with him.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, a tad sarcastically, and smiled wide. He was beginning to guess how he’d gotten roofied.

The biker came closer, now, and his friends spread out on either side of him. One of them pulled a knife from his boot, the other one—the tall guy, stuck his cigarette in his mouth and cracked his knuckles.

Steve stuck his hand in his back pocket—the biker’s knife was still in there. It wasn’t much, against three guys, but it was something…He slipped it out, slowly, flicked it open behind him. Say what you want about the Rogers—and the people in this town said a lot, none of it nice—but you couldn’t accuse them of going down without a fight.

And really, Steve didn’t mind getting beat up. It had happened before. But there was something else in the biker’s eyes, something hungry and noxious, like dirty wood sparking in a fire.

This guy had bought him drinks with a very specific goal in mind, and he’d drugged him, too, Steve was sure of it. Steve took a step back as the bikers advanced, but he knew what was behind him—a dead end of trashcans and a high, wooden fence.

“I know what you’re holding behind your back. And it’s mine.”

Steve swallowed, brandished the knife in front of him. He took another step back and felt the metal of a dumpster against his shoulder blades. He flicked a glance toward the road, but there was no one but the biker’s stocky friend, twirling his knife in his fingers. 

The biker was close, now, only a few feet away. His friends flanked him, the buff one crossed his arms, knife flashing in the setting sun, while the tall one ashed his cigarette onto the ground disinterestedly. The biker planted his feet, gave Steve a smile full of stained teeth. “And let me tell you something, cutie. I always get what’s mine.”

“Let me tell you something, asshole,” Steve said through his teeth. “I’m not yours, and I never will be.”

“Knife’s mine, though. You gonna hand it over?”

“If you misuse something, it gets taken away.” Steve raised the knife higher, his other arm coming up to shield himself. “Didn’t they teach you that in kindergarten?” The arm he was holding up was the one with Bucky’s number on it. He stared at the stark black numbers. Well, he sure as hell needed help, but it wouldn’t do him much good in this situation. God, he wished Bucky were here…

The biker inched closer. “Well, sure. You know what else they taught me?”

Steve jabbed the knife towards him experimentally.

The biker didn’t flinch, just widened his eyes, amused. “They also taught me how to share.” He threw his arms wide. “That’s why I brought friends.”

 

Some part of Bucky knew Steve would never call him. The thought haunted him as he flew down dusty roads, the thought that he might never hear from Steve again. Whether Steve was too proud to accept what he saw as another kind gesture—which it certainly hadn’t been, it had been born entirely from Bucky’s selfish desire to hear that soft, smooth voice again—or whether Steve simply had no interest in spending any time with Bucky he wasn’t getting paid for, Bucky didn’t know. All he knew was the look in Steve’s eyes when Bucky had written it, like Steve was looking at a museum artifact he wasn’t allowed to touch. 

He wondered if Steve knew just how much he was hoping for a call. 

Cause nobody bothered to call Bucky anymore. Nobody except….

He looked down at his little prepaid cellphone, at the red, blinking 4 over ‘missed calls.’

He couldn’t accept a call from her. He just couldn’t. Whoever Natasha was looking for, he wasn’t that man anymore. 

He threw the phone onto the floor and kept driving, his shoulder aching with phantom pain. 

 

The stocky one came at him first, flying in from his right side. Steve ducked the fist, slashed for his leg with the knife, missed. The biker’s foot connected with his knee, hard, and Steve collapsed just long enough to catch the stocky guy’s fist in the side of his head. He stumbled away, collided with the tall guy, who snaked an arm around Steve’s throat. Steve tried to stab at him but he twisted away. Steve could tell from the man’s grunt of pain that he’d drawn blood, at least. The biker’s fist connected with Steve’s face, caught him in the nose. Steve felt the explosion of pain, numbed by his adrenaline, the warm trickle of blood on his upper lip. The tall guy’s fingers were around his wrist now, twisting fiercely, but Steve didn’t go down that easy. He kept his hold on the knife, wincing in pain. He twisted his body, elbowed him the in gut, ducked out of his stranglehold.

The biker grabbed his other arm, above the elbow, twisted him around and flung him against the dumpster.

The metal collided with his back, knocked the wind out of him. Steve slumped against it, wiped the blood off his face, grinned at him, held up the knife. He still had it.

The tall guy was panting, holding his stomach. There was blood on his T shirt—Steve had definitely clipped him with the knife.

The stocky guy advanced on him again, he feinted to the left but Steve saw his eyes, was willing to bet he knew what this guy was gonna do before he knew himself. He grabbed at Steve’s wrist— Steve jammed the knife through his palm. The stocky guy back-peddled, screaming, but he took Steve’s knife with him, and now Steve was a little more screwed.

Steve’s hands were slippery with blood now, but he balled them into fists, planted his feet as the biker came at him again.

Steve swung first, at his stomach, but the biker blocked it deftly with his elbow, his other hand coming up to get Steve in the nose, again.

Coppery tasting blood in his mouth now. He tried to get away, tried for another upper cut and connected with a satisfying squelch with the biker’s mouth. He might have gotten away, if there had been two of them. But the stocky guy grabbed him by the elbow, flipped him around and managed to toss him to the ground. Steve felt a kick connecting with his ribs, again and again. And then the biker’s face loomed large in his vision, pinning him back against the dumpster, hard. 

“Damn. You’re a little fighter, aren’t ya?” 

Steve spat blood in his face, and the tall one grabbed him by the hair—goddammit, he really needed a haircut—and slammed his head against the metal of the dumpster. 

The tall guy plucked his cigarette from his lips and put it out against Steve’s neck; he grit his teeth against the bright, sparkling pain. He was so, so fucked. 

And then he heard a voice. “Alright, you lowlives. Fun’s over.”

Steve’s adversaries turned as one to search out the source of the voice. 

Steve smiled. “Hey, Phil.”

Phil Coulson looked madder than Steve had ever seen him, a shotgun cocked in his clenched fists and an expression of pure rage on his face. “You all get the fuck away from him, or I’ll blow holes through every single one of ya.”

 

Bucky flopped down onto his bed. A real bed—in a real hotel. Twice in one day, a luxury. 

Except that his real stroke of luck had been seeing Steve again—and Bucky had left him, just like he always did. Left everything behind, good or bad.  
He had Clint to thank for the hotel room—he’d set Bucky up with a trip that had almost a day to spare. Maybe he’d heard the desperate tiredness in Bucky’s voice when he’d asked for a route back through here. Bucky grabbed his phone out of his backpack and flipped through his recent calls. Nothing. Nothing that could be Steve, at least. Another call from Natasha, though, the red digits standing out stark against the rest. There was no point trying, he’d only let her down, like he always had. Might as well let her think he’d drunk himself to death. 

He rolled over and tried to fall asleep, pulled the blankets over his head in the stuffy, musty room, trying to snuff out the memories swirling around his head.

 

“Hey, uh, thanks.”

“Don’t need to thank me. Steve. I don’t want that kinda filth anywhere near my business.” 

Steve looked up from his vodka rocks to Coulson’s sincere expression. “But you don’t mind me near your business?”

Coulson looked down, at the bottle of fireball he’d snatched down from the shelves once he had been sure they were alone. “You’re a lot of things, Steve. And I won’t lie when I say, I’m not very fond of who you are right now. But people have their shape in time, too, and I think there’s a lot more to your story coming down the pike. It’s just nobody can see it yet. Not even you.”

Steve looked down at the dusty floor. “I can’t see much of anything anymore.”

Coulson scrubbed a hand over his face. “You oughta go home, Steve.”

Steve shook his head tiredly. “Nah, I gotta…I…”

“Go home, Steve. Please.”

Steve looked up at Phil, at the deep lines that had carved their way into the man’s face. “Alright. Pegs needs me anyway.” He slid off the barstool and threw the bag of ice Coulson had given him onto the bar. “Thanks again.”

“I…Don’t mention it.” Phil swallowed. “I don’t know if this is even on your mind anymore, but…what happened with that trucker fella?”

Steve stared down at the sawdust on the floor, wishing he could wipe his entire encounter with Bucky out of his memory and also wishing he could relive it, again and again, the warm feeling of falling asleep on someone’s welcoming shoulder. “I don’t…I dunno, Phil. I don’t think he’s coming back for a while.”

 

All Bucky wanted to do was come back. But he couldn’t. He dug his cigarettes out of his backpack and lit one up, staring at the ceiling. There was just so much trouble Steve could get into, Steve’s entire existence stressed him out and he couldn’t remember feeling this protective about someone in a long, long time. But it wasn’t even his place to feel protective. Not his place in the slightest. Steve didn’t even know him, and every time somebody put their trust in Bucky, they got let down, didn’t they? Fucking rich, him sitting around worrying about a stranger he didn’t even know, when he couldn’t even do right by his own flesh and blood. 

He rolled over on the lumpy mattress and finally, finally drifted off to sleep. 

 

By the time Steve was stumbling back home, it was dark out, and he was exhausted. Whatever he’d been on had faded, but not quite enough, leaving him with a headache and ambling, unsure footsteps. 

Which is when he heard the shrill menace of sirens in his ears. He stopped and leaned back against a tree on the road, staring into the tinted windows of the black and white car with a blurry gaze, fairly certain he could make out Clive. 

He struggled to keep his face neutral as Clive climbed out of the car, gave him his kind, sickly-sweet smile. “Rough night, huh?”

Steve tried to throw his usual smile back up onto his face, his usual mask. Except tonight, he couldn’t quite manage it. Tonight, the feeling of the biker and his friends, the boot against his ribs and the squeezing fingers around his throat were far too recent, far too fresh, and he grimaced and shook his head. 

“I can’t, Clive. Not tonight.”

“What do you mean you ‘can’t?’” Clive cocked his head at Steve, shined his torch directly into Steve’s eyes, blinding him. “I thought you were pretty clear on how this worked. Just like your mama was very clear on how this worked—”

“Maybe I don’t give a fuck how this works, anymore.” The words flew out of Steve’s mouth before he had time to think. 

“Oh. Is that so?” Clive’s hand was around Steve’s neck, slamming him back against the tree’s bark with fresh intensity, knocking the wind out of Steve's lungs. “Maybe you should start giving a fuck. Because the only reason I let you operate your shameless little business, the only reason I let you and your hick granny squat on this land—“

“Don’t you dare talk about her—“

“Is because you play nice with me.” Clive smiled, a superior smile of someone about to say ‘checkmate.’ He smacked Steve, hard. “So shut the fuck up, and do what I say. Or I will make your life a living hell, do you hear me?”

Clive tried to grab Steve by the face again, and something deep inside Steve said _no._

The next thing Steve knew, his fist was flying through the air, connecting with Clive’s jaw. Clive stumbled backwards, a hand to his face. 

They both spun as police sirens sang on the road behind them. Clive took a few hasty steps back from Steve, and Steve let his fists fall to his sides, trying to relax his shoulders and school his mind into something approaching coherency. 

The county sheriff was stepping out of his car, telling them something about responsibility and the worrying nature of Steve’s interaction, and Steve was trying to pay attention, trying to explain himself, but the next thing he knew, the ground was coming up to meet him with a hard, gritty smack. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for abandoning this for so long. I have the entire plot planned out, even had half of this chapter written for months, but I just didn't really have it in me to write anything. I don't know if anybody's still reading this, but...It's back?  
> I'm looking for criticism, as always, but please don't be mean. I know it's shit, it's been a rough few months and I'm just now getting back into writing. sorry it's short. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who read this story and to anyone who might be still reading it, I promise it's not abandoned, I'm just slow at updates. Another one should be up soon.


	6. A Phone Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words on the last one! Here's another chapter, give me your thoughts <3

Steve looked up at the scene unfolding above him through foggy, half-shut eyes.

It seemed like Clive was getting dressed down by the sheriff, which made him smile.

Then he felt a hand on his arm, dragging him up, and the world twisted around like a carnival ride.

He may have hit the vodka a little hard. But hey, it was free. And God knows he’d needed a drink.

“Alright, son. Here we go. There you are.”

Steve shook his head to clear it, realizing he was being shoved into the back of the sheriff’s car.

He decided it was pointless to resist and leaned back against the seat.

The officer was shining a flashlight in his eyes. “You been drinking tonight?”

_No shit…_ “Um…” Steve squinted against the light, feeling a headache coming on. “Maybe a little.”

The sheriff raised a hand at Clive as he got back into his car. Clive shot Steve one last nasty look that told him this wasn’t over.

The sheriff turned back to Steve. “Alright. So. I’m gonna give you a pass on taking a swing at a cop, cause I wanna do that myself every time I see that asshole.”

Steve couldn’t resist smiling at that.

“But…”

Steve felt his smile fade.

“You’re way too out of it to be walking around. And from what I hear, it’s not the first time.”

“I’m not, I—I was just with a friend, and I was walking home—“

“Your friend have a name? A phone number?”

Steve shut his mouth was a snap. Phil Coulson was the most respectable person he knew, and he was _not_ dragging him into this.

“I’ll take that as a no.” the sheriff leaned back against his car, scratched his bald patch. “How about this. I’ll take you down to the station for the night, you can sober up, sleep it off. Next morning we can have another talk about your behavior, all right?”

“No, I can’t—“

The sheriff had evidently decided their conversation was over, because he slammed the door in Steve’s face and got into the driver’s seat.

Country music and a rattling air condition turned on abruptly as the engine clanked and rumbled to life.

Steve put his hand against the grate separating the front seat from the back. “Sir. Excuse me. Officer? Hey. I can’t be out all night, okay? I have to get home.”

“And why’s that? If you’re trying to catch the ballgame, I’m pretty sure it’s over.” The sheriff laughed at his own joke and turned the radio up.

Steve was feeling any fondness he’d felt for this guy over their shared hatred of Clive melting away. “My aunt needs me. She’s not well. I’m the only one who takes care of her.”

They came to a stoplight, and the sheriff turned around. “The way you’re looking, she needs to be taking care of you.” He turned back around in his seat, flipped the siren on, and ran the red.

Steve leaned back against the seat in silence. The words stung, cause there was a kernel of truth in them. Peggy was his responsibility, his _only_ responsibility, and he couldn’t even manage to take care of her.

He couldn’t afford to be drunk, couldn’t afford to be picking fights with anyone.

It was just that today, he’d needed it.

Just like the day before. And the day before that. Just like everyday, when he woke up already needing to forget. Needing to shut his eyes to the light at the end of the tunnel that kept shrinking, and shrinking, until it was just a blip on the horizon like a setting sun.

 

Steve was dumped unceremoniously but not unkindly onto the bed of a small holding cell.

“Get some sleep.”

He was up in a second, hands around the bars. “Hey. Look, I wasn’t lying when I said I have someone to take care of. I can’t stay ‘til morning. Please.”

The sheriff turned around and regarded him with tired eyes, as if his mustache were too heavy for his face. “Can she come pick you up?”

“No,” Steve spat. “She’s ninety-five.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Alls I know is, I can’t have ya wandering around alone.”

“Well can you drive me home then? Please?”

The sheriff grunted. “I look like a fuckin’ cab driver to you, boy?”

Steve fell back onto the bed with a groan of frustration.

“Only way you’re getting out of here is if somebody responsible comes and picks you up. Otherwise, just take a nice nap and go home in the morning.”

Steve considered. He really, really didn’t want to ask for Coulson’s help, not for the second time in one day. And he didn’t want to drag him into this mess.

And Bert…There was no way Bert was picking him up from a sheriff’s station. No way in hell.

Steve bit his lip.

“I’ll make one phone call for you. That’s it.”

Well shit. That narrowed things down, didn’t it? He looked down at his forearm. There was nothing left of Bucky’s number but a black smear, but Steve already knew it by heart. He considered, carefully.

He owed Bucky too much already. Way, way too much. And yet, strangely, Bucky was the only person he trusted to come to his rescue. Bert would refuse him and Coulson would be asleep, of that he was ninety-nine percent sure. But Bucky…

Bucky was a wild card. He really didn’t know anything about the guy, and yet…

There was something in his eyes when he’d written the numbers on Steve’s arm. Like he was handing Steve a little piece of his heart, and he wouldn’t be whole again until Steve handed it back. _Jesus, Steve, you really are out of it if you’re waxing poetic about some dirty trucker._

Steve let out a long sigh. The sheriff was looking at him expectantly. It was now or never. At least after this, he’d know if Bucky could be trusted.

The uncomfortable part was that he’d really, really owe him.

“I have somebody I can call. His name’s Bucky.”

“’Bucky?’ What kind of a name is that? Does he have a last name?”

“Um…” Steve racked his brain, trying to put together the nonsense Bucky had rattled off the night they first met. _A mouthful, indeed._ “I don’t…I don’t totally remember, sorry. I got his number, though.”

The sheriff sighed and heaved himself into a chair by the phone. “Fine, kid, we’ll give this Bucky a call.”

 

Bucky woke up at one AM to the buzzing of his phone against the faux wood of the nightstand.

He squinted his eyes at the blinding light from the screen. Natasha. Again.

He slammed the phone back down.

He was staring at the ceiling fan with stinging eyes when he heard his phone buzz again. He picked it up.

One new voicemail.

He’d never thought three little words could make his heart beat so fast.

After some debate, he pressed play, and his sister’s voice crackled from the speaker. She sounded tired, but there was that brusque undercurrent of irritation, that hint of steel down her spine, that he’d always loved about her.

“Hey, you bastard. Leaving a voicemail in this day and age is desperate, even for me but, uh…”

He could hear her clearing her throat, taking a breath that sounded painful.

“Uh, mom’s dead. Can you give me a call when you get this? Please? I can’t do this by myself. I mean I can, I always can, but this…I don’t want to. I could use some backup on this, Jim. So if you’re still alive, which I’m praying you are, you son of a bitch, can you call me? Please? That’s all I need. Just a phone call.”

There was another heavy exhalation. “Just a damn phone call, at least. Goodnight.”

She wasn’t crying, but there was a pain in her voice that was even worse, and Bucky rolled over and curled up in a ball around the phone.

His phone buzzed again and he jumped, momentarily scared shitless. He stared down at the numbers. Not Natasha.

_Steve?_

Against all his better judgment, he answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, sir, this is Sheriff Hall at the Miller County Sheriff’s Department, have I reached ‘Bucky?’”

“Uh, depends what you’re asking for, I guess…”

“I’m here with a Steve Rogers, says he knows ya?”

Bucky sat straight up in bed. “Is he okay?”

“He’s alright, just a little blurry around the edges, I think. I’m just lookin’ for someone to take him home, see that he’s taken care of.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Bucky hung up the phone and grabbed his pants, slamming the door to his hotel room and running towards the elevator without a second thought.

It wasn’t until he was in his truck, hurtling down the highway in the middle of the night with a lit cigarette in his fingers, that he stopped to wonder why the hell he was doing this. When had Steve Rogers become his fight? When had it become second nature to defend him?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe people just did what they had to do, damn the consequences.

And maybe Steve was something he had to see through to the end.

 

Steve was certainly looking worse for wear. Bucky stopped short when he saw him, sitting at a plain wooden table in handcuffs.

“Hey, Steve…” He spared an accusatory glance for the sheriff. “Did you do that?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Nah, I’m too old for rough housin’. Ask him.”

Steve was running a hand over his face, as if surprised to find bruises there.

“Well? I filled out the fuc—The paperwork. He comes with me now, right?”

The sheriff gave him another shrug. “I’d prefer somebody whose last name he knows, but I guess you’ll have to do.”

 

Steve didn’t say a word as he climbed into the passenger seat of Bucky’s truck.

Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Want a cigarette?”

All he got in response was Steve’s outstretched fingers, so he handed one over wordlessly. He held his lighter out and watched Steve’s face in the tiny, glowing circle of warmth, feeling strangely intimate again.

“So, uh…Where do you want me to drop you off?”

Steve shrugged. “Where we met. That’s fine. Closest you’re gonna get on the road.”

They drove in silence for awhile, until Steve spoke again. “Thanks, Bucky.”

Bucky shrugged, tensed his one hand around the steering wheel. “It’s fine.”

“No, thank you, really.” Steve shifted in the seat, wrapped his arms around himself in a strangely childish gesture. He looked cold.

Bucky turned up the heater, even though it was still warm out. “It’s fine,” he repeated. Damn, where did his words go when he needed them?

“It’s not just fine, it’s a lot more than that. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“You don’t need to.”

“But I will.”

“I don’t want that from you, Steve. Not as a favor, not as payment, not as anything but what you want.”

“I’m not talking about _sex._ ” Steve’s voice had gone cold again, like it had way back when, when Bucky had offered him the twenty the night they’d met. “That’s not all I’m good for, you know.”

Bucky realized he was coming up on one of the few stoplights on the highway to the gas station, and slammed on his brakes. He turned to look at Steve.

Steve looked back at him.

Bucky felt like he was sinking in those blue eyes, like someone had tied a cinderblock around his ankle and thrown him in.

“What I’m trying to say is, if you ever need a favor, if you’re ever in trouble, I got your back. I promise.”

Bucky nodded, unsure if he would ever take Steve up on it but admiring the fearless resolution in his voice all the same. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Steve.”

“Light’s green.”

Bucky jumped, and accelerated a little too hard. Damn that Steve Rogers, and his unfathomable blue eyes, like the breakers at dawn. Whenever he looked into them, his head got too twisted up to think about anything else.

Bucky pulled up at the little rest stop where he and Steve had met, feeling oddly nostalgic. He felt like he knew Steve strangely well, now, so much so that the Steve he’d met here felt like a stranger.

Bucky squinted out his windshield at the two people arguing in the beams of his headlights. “What the hell’s going on?”

Steve groaned. “Peggy. She’s probably worried sick.”

He slid from the truck to the asphalt and Bucky followed his lead, recognizing the cashier from the convenience store. The old lady yelling at him, though…was that Peggy?

The woman turned as soon as she saw Steve, throwing her arms around him. “Steven Rogers, I was worried sick, you’re never out past midnight…”

The cashier, Bert, Bucky remembered dimly, was throwing his hands up and heading back for his store.

Just as quickly as Peggy had rushed for Steve, she let go of him and turned on Bucky, holding a bony, shaky fist in his face. “Alright, listen up. I don’t know what happened to my Stevie, but if I found out you had anything to do with it, I will put a bullet between your eyes, do you hear me?”

Steve hugged her, laughing. “At ease, soldier, he’s my friend. His name’s Bucky.”

Peggy gave Bucky an appraising stare, seeming to really see him for the first time. She held out her hand, this time in a handshake. “Nice to meet you, then?”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Bucky held out his hand for a firm, quick handshake.

Then Peggy turned on her heel. “I’m going to bed, now that I now my grand-nephew is alive. Goodnight.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow as the old woman trudged across the fields. “She’s…She’s somethin’.”

Steve laughed fondly. “She really will shoot you if she thinks you hurt me.” He turned to Bucky, blue eyes wide and innocent, with a sparkle of something else within them. “That’s what makes her so charming.”

Bucky smiled. He was reminded, strangely, of Natasha. Of the days when she would have stood up for him at a moment’s notice, when she would yell in their father’s face, defending him, until Bucky had to step between them to block their father’s punches.

He realized Steve was walking away, and wished he could think of something to say to stop him. Everything he could think of just sounded proprietary, like Steve owed him something, owed him to stay and talk. If Bucky’s time was money, Steve’s sure as hell was, too. Bucky reminded himself that this was a favor, just a favor, nothing more, and turned back around for his truck, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder.

But if he had, he would have seen two blue eyes looking back at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how much of the stuff in this story is legal/realistic, especially when it comes to law enforcement, but I've lived in a small town for a few years and I've come to the conclusion that the cops here do whatever the hell they want honestly. Their answer for everything seems to be "well can someone responsible come and vouch for you/take care of you?" and don't get me wrong I have huge respect for the police but they are the fucking worst sometimes, when they have nothing better to do than harass people.   
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed it, even more Steve+Bucky coming up in the next chapter haha


End file.
